O.M.G.

I didn't grow up going to church. No sheets were ripped off of me on early Sunday mornings nor was I admonished to memorize biblical scriptures as a child. Essentially, our most frequent sermons came from Pastor Pops and Minister Mommy and mostly the message was: Do well in school. Follow our rules. Oh yeah, and try not to get pregnant or arrested before you have enough of your own money to manage it.

That said, there wasn't any active discussion against the idea of there being a God either. Like a lot of people, we pretty much had that inertia-Jesus that many people welcome into their homes. And as a result, we loosely acknowledged that mysterious heavenly father on major holidays. Oh yeah and during really big meals.

In all fairness, I do feel pretty certain that my parents believed that there was indeed some sort of higher power during those years. But as far as this being woven into the fabric of our day to day operations or as some guiding force in the things we did? From my recollection, that part was a no.

Even still, I think always felt connected to religious ideology. From as early as I could remember, I would pray and think and have conversations with God. Not just those prayers where you promise to do better or be better or even the ones where you beg for some very specific outcome in exchange for your first-born child.  No, not those kinds. I guess. . .I don't know. . .I guess I just always had this thing inside of me that made me believe. Regardless of what was happening around me. Even without trying too hard or even when my education reached such levels that many of those in my peer groups became too pragmatic to believe--I always did.

Yep.

My friend Sister Moon wrote this very provocative piece recently about her disbelief in God. And let me be clear: She was thoughtful and smart and real about her feelings. It didn't toss all followers of organized religion into some hokey pile of crazy but instead teased out her immediate thoughts about her not believing in God. She explained her perspective and, since I like to think and hear peoples' viewpoints, I listened. Or rather, read it. Which reminds me: I think it's a good thing to be able to share what you believe or feel without making other people feel like lepers. I'm just saying.

In that piece she said this:

"And to me, it all simply boils down to this- you either have the gene for it or you do not. For religion. And I do not."

That line struck me. I think it did because, even in the absence of parental force, I always felt this innate sense of there being a God. Not in this obligatory sense either. I just always genuinely believed. And it never has felt dubious to me. Even as a child. Which made me wonder whether or not this sort of hunger to know God and seek Him is indeed wired into our DNA.

Hmmm.

I was baptized as a medical student. Dunked under a pool while dressed in a white gown as members of our congregation applauded and shouted hallelujah. I remember it so vividly because it was when I was smack, dab in the midst of studying for boards the summer after my second year. I'd been attending this church that nourished my soul and unlocked some of the things I'd always wondered about. Maybe "unlock" is a strong word but at least it broke things down and provided ways for me to better understand what I was feeling inside. That church also didn't feel polarizing. Which was good for someone like me who was a spiritual toddler.

And so. I guess you can say that I (as the church folks say) accepted Christ in a formal sense in 1994. Twenty years ago this month, actually. But informally, I think my deep down feelings and beliefs were always there. They were.

Over the years, I learned things for myself. I made up my mind about my own beliefs and spoke to God personally about the things that confused me. And I mean it--I spoke to Him and speak to Him on a regular basis. All of it, for me, tied into what I yearned for--a personal relationship with God. And to some this might sound ridiculous. But to me, it has always made perfect sense.

For me, that God reference specifically meant Jesus. Just to be transparent.

Then time passed. I continued to learn and serve and follow but I began to wonder things. Like wonder things about God's will or about whether or not this alleged relationship that I speak of even existed. See, I started to look back over my life and take an inventory. And when I did, I recognized that for the majority of my life, I've had what the church folks call "favor." Good outcomes. Nice parents. Opportunities. Resources. And happy endings. Favor. 

So that, not so much the perils of the world, began to make me question what I believed. I'd sit in a quiet place and start to cry. I'd wonder if this was all in my head or whether or not me and my God even had a relationship at all. "Of course you say you love God," I'd tell myself. "All you know is favor." And that? That would make me sad. And a little bit lonely, too.

But then there would be other times where it would be the opposite. Like, the time that I was driving down the street and heard this song "Golden" by Jill Scott for the first time. In that song she belts out these words:

"I'm strumming my own freedom. . .playing the God in me. . . representing His glory. . .hope He's proud of me. . . .hope He's proud of me!"

And that? That convicted me so deeply and made me cry so hard that I literally had to pull over. Because that? That is how I feel. And how I have always felt from my earliest days. Like each night when my day is done or after I've interacted with someone I'm hoping  that it's something that would make God proud of me. And that's just something that's in me. I've always felt that way. And most days, I'm asking myself and asking God how can I let my light shine? And how can I reflect the very best things about knowing and loving Him without alienating others or making them feel all weird?

Seriously. That's what I wonder.

So yeah. That had been my pendulum. For essentially the majority of my adult life. One minute feeling deeply connected to God and the idea of Him and other times extremely fearful that I was no more than a fair weather friend. And honestly? I can't say for sure that I always knew which was true.

That is, until November 15, 2012. Yes. The worst day of my entire life is also bookmarked as the day I learned for sure that my trust and dependence on the God I believe in is as real as the tree on my front lawn or the sun that is now setting in the sky. It is.

Let me explain: I've said it before but I will say it once more. So many provisions were made for me that evening. So many very, very clear messages sent to me that felt like nothing I'd ever felt in my entire life. But the real, true pivotal time came when Harry called me to tell me that Deanna had never made it to pick up the boys from school. And yes, we've all had those fears that someone hasn't made it home because of some catastrophe. But I tell you--this sense was different. It was intense. And it was as if God himself spoke straight into my ear that evening: "Your sister is gone."

Gone.

And this was before anything at all was confirmed. But right at that moment, I knew. And what happened next is the part that I hold in my heart like the most cherished treasure I've ever had. See what happened next was on instinct. Not me coaching myself or thinking it through or any such thing. It was like a heart beating or a newborn baby turning to suckle on his mother's breast. I stopped my car (yes, I do that from time to time) and sat on the side of the road. And in my most calm voice, I surrendered everything to God. I was fully and completely dependent in that moment. More than I have ever been on any person or thing at any time in my life.

And I said, "Listen God. I feel like You are trying to tell me something. And what I think is that You are letting me know that You have called my sister home to be with You. And let me just say that this is NOT my will. But if for some reason I'm right, then I am telling You that my daddy is usually the person who takes over in these times for our family. But if You have decided to take his child from him? I'm telling You--He won't be able to do that." I took a breath and thought for a moment. Then I went on. "If this is what is about to happen, then I'm telling You right now that I am going to need You to give me marching orders. And to make that happen I'll need peace of mind, an overwhelming sense of calm, and really, God--You'll have to keep my wits so unbelievably about me that I can handle what needs to be handled. My father's AND my mother's business. I mean it.  I need You to show me EXACTLY what to do each step of the way. And I promise that I will listen and pay attention and be obedient."

I felt the tears coming on. I did. But I wasn't done.

"God? Please. Show Yourself. To me. Through me. Show me what you want me to do. Order my steps and make it so clear that it is You that there is no question how it happened. To me especially."

And that was that.

You'd think that I would have felt lonely in that moment. But I didn't. I felt. . .I don't know. . . safe. Protected even. I did. And turning to God in that moment was so primal, so instinctive. Not a literal or a figurative Hail Mary but what felt right and natural and necessary.

Yes. That.

So, of course, there are those questions, right? Like how could a loving God allow some of the things that happen in the world? How? How could He ask for a child or for someone as amazing and beautiful and needed as Deanna? How?

My answer is that I just don't know. I don't. But I also know that His ways are not my ways. So seeking to perfectly understand all that He does sort of puts Him into my playing field. And, again, perhaps this is how I'm genetically wired. But I just don't believe we are the same. I don't know the end of things before the beginning. I don't. And you know? Even when I feel sad and upset with God, in the deepest corners of my soul, I still know. I know that I believe. And that, to me, God is God. Not man and not me. He's God. Which, to me, means that there are TONS of things that we still DO NOT know about His ways and His ultimate vision for so many things but that will hopefully be revealed to us in due time.

Now.

There are certainly some things that I speak to God about all the time. Like equity with people and how being accepting and loving is, I believe, more like Him than leaving people out and making them feel like outcasts. I recognize that it could possibly be necessary for me to reconcile some things that I believe are just human rights and that, to me, aren't because of some faulty wiring. And sure, some of my peers of Christian faith might not agree with me on that. But see, to me, my faith--or even religion--comes down to my relationship with God. I'm okay with the fact that we'll have to hash some things out. I am. In every single important relationship that I am in, that is something that happens. So it feels natural to me that God and I will have some ongoing and sometimes difficult dialogue.

But maybe--just maybe--it won't be difficult at all. Like, just maybe, maybe he'll be cool with these things--more cool than anyone realizes, even me. Perhaps He could care less if I take the kids trick or treating or if I attend my dear friends' commitment ceremony or even wedding when those friends share the same gender. Maybe. And hey--maybe He'll be furious with me. But I recognize that that is between me and Him. Period.

And no, I don't need anyone to tell me what the bible says on all of that. I don't. So there.

I guess, for me, God is love. And love is inclusion and understanding and respect. Period, end of story. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And I don't think that snatches me from the loving arms of God because I do.

Yeah. So honestly? It feels so out of my own control really. My belief in God is as much a part of me as being black or being goofy or loving my family. It's non-negotiable and not even something I have to  force. It never has been. Perhaps it's just that I have the gene.

Maybe. Maybe not. And maybe none of this ramble even makes sense. But that's fine, too, since a lot of people don't think that any of this belief in God stuff does.

Either way, no matter what--I will continue to strum my own freedom and play the God in me. . .representing His glory and hoping--and praying--that when all is said and done that He's proud of me. That's what I believe.

Yeah.

***
Happy Hump Day.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . this. . .a neo-soul song that is as intensely gospel as it gets for me.



. . .and this. . . I can listen to her voice all day. Sigh.



And lastly, this. . . an old gospel hit that has always given me solace, quieted my soul and reminded me that His ways are not my ways. Particularly the part that says, "Because He's sovereign. God is God." And I get it that this doesn't resonate with a lot of people. But it resonates with me.

Oh me, oh my.

I was talking to a friend recently who has been going through some tough times. These tough times put some hard decisions before her and she was talking to me about what she should do. I was mostly listening because this friend is wise. I know she's wise because I've been on the other end of her advice.

"What would you tell a friend?" I asked.

"What?" she replied.

"A friend. If this were me or a good friend, what would be your advice?"

And when I said that I knew I'd struck a cord. She pressed her lips together and furrowed her brow. I could tell those wheels were turning. A few days later I received a text from her telling me what she'd decided to do. And she told me that she advised herself as she would a friend. Which really, really helped.

That got me thinking. Isn't it funny how liberal we are with our good advice and kind words to our friends yet stingy with them when it comes to ourselves? Like, so many times I find myself sitting with a girlfriend sipping wine and hashing through some sort of issue. Sometimes I'm the hasher and other times I'm the hashee. Either way, someone at some point speaks a good word that convicts the other. And after that we pour one more glass of wine and clink glasses in honor of having great and wise friends in your corner.

Yeah.

So today I was sitting on the couch chatting with Harry. I was fretting as I often do about the kids and school and social interactions and anything else I could think of to fret about. So I'd stored up all of my monkeys to put onto the BHE's back so that I wouldn't have to worry alone.

"I need you to calm down, babe." That's what my man said to me matter-of-factly. "Everything can't always be so heavy. We have great kids."

"We do. But this note from school said this. And I don't want anyone misunderstanding my son. We are raising black men."

"You don't think I know that we're raising black men? I do. But worrying only makes you crazy."

I sighed. "I do feel crazy sometimes."

"Babe. You are right about a lot of this stuff. But some of the stuff you get all worked up over are little day-to-day things. With some stuff you have to let kids just work that shit out. You can't go overanalyzing every single thing your kids say every single day. Some shit you just have to let them live through and figure out."

And yes he uses the expletives. What can I say? He's an ex-military dude.

Anyways. My point is that I spend a crap-ton of time hoping and praying that I'm getting parenting right. I constantly pray that my kids will remember and embrace every good thing I've done and have amnesia for the not-so-good things. I ask God to show me what to do and ask for forgiveness when I say and do things that I don't think are so good.

Yeah.

So today, despite my admonishment from the BHE, I found myself in a fretful do-loop again. This time it was in response to yet another shenanigan of some sort that one of my sons was involved in while at school. And. I will say that in no way did anyone make a huge deal out of it but me being me, I did. I started applying it to my son's future as an adult and started already preparing to lecture him about the perils of poor choices. Then I tossed the monkey over to Harry (again) who listened but then reminded me (again) that everything that happens is not some wretched foreshadowing of a tainted future.

Okay, okay--those are my words. But you get the picture.

Anywho. There was a point in all of this. My point is that I know for sure that I often give my friends good and thoughtful advice. And I even thought about me suggesting to my friend that she provide counsel to HERSELF as she would a friend and had to say, "Hmmmm. That's a damn good suggestion."

Yeah, man. So tonight I decided that I'd take my own advice. I'd be a friend to me and talk to me like a girlfriend. And see, the good thing about girlfriends is that they know all the background so they can pull it out and apply it where necessary. As opposed to, like, Dr. Phil or somebody.

Not that I have a problem with Dr. Phil. I'm just saying, that's all.

So yeah. Today I sat down with me and talked me off of the ledge. As only a sisterfriend can. And you know what? I think I'm going to do this more often. 'Cause me? I'm a damn good sisterfriend.

Yeah, I am.

*****
Me talking to Me today:

I'm kind of freaking out. I know I shouldn't be but I am. 

Now what?

Isaiah was horsing around in school today. And I need him not to be doing that. I mean. . . .he's at a new school and I just. . . yeah. I don't want anyone misunderstanding him, you know?

What do you mean by that?

I mean. . . like. . . misunderstand him and think he's a not a good kid. He's such a good kid, you know? And then I don't want him not realizing that there is a time to work and a time to play. He's going to have to understand that someday or it's going to be hard for him as a man.

He's eight, Kimberly. Eight.

So what? You're suggesting I just blow it off? I mean, that's not the answer either. 

No, I'm not saying that. I'm saying that there should be a consequence for his actions. But him horsing around today doesn't mean you need to brand him with a scarlet letter. Damn.

But these things add up. Some of the stuff both of those boys do I find myself saying, "Dude. Seriously?" And I just really don't want my boys growing up making a bunch of dumb ass choices because they don't know when to be serious.

Uhhh, okay.

What's that supposed to mean?

It means relax. You love them. Harry loves them. And they have a ridiculously huge village helping you and Harry out. They will be fine. Even people who make dumb ass choices in elementary school grow up to be upstanding adults.

Not always. 

Yeah but what could be more dumb ass than swallowing a tack? *(explanation below, just keep reading)

Oh see. Now you're playing dirty.

But you have to admit--that was exponentially dumb-asser than what you're worried about today, wasn't it? Like. . . what were you thinking?

I was. . . .

You were. . . .horsing around. In elementary school. Precisely. Uhhh. . . DOCTOR Manning. See? You turned out okay.

I forgot about the tack-swallowing incident. That was pretty dumb. 

Uhhh. . .yeah. Imagine how psyched your mom was to get THAT call from school. "Hey! Your dumb ass daughter just swallowed a thumb tack!"

I know, right?

Right. And let's not forget the day you cut the girl's hair on the school bus in sixth grade. How dumb ass was that?

Awww man. That was so, so dumb. And I was just trying to be funny, too. That girl had a crap-ton of hair. I only pretend snipped a teeny weeny bit of it as a joke but accidentally really cut it. But it was funny, though.

Yeah. And I'm sure your mom was like "Ha ha, hell" when she had to come up to Frank D. Parent School to talk to the damn principal about it, too.

Yikes.

Yikes is right. You owe your mama an apology for being such a dumb ass.

Hey!

My point is that you turned out okay. Some things are going to be dumb ass. They just are. It has to be that way. You remember. There were consequences for all of those things but you are living proof that with love you can still turn out okay.

Yeah. I guess you're right.

Calm down.

Okay.

They're awesome kids.

I know.

You're an awesome and imperfect mom.

So imperfect.

But nobody loves them like you and Harry. Nobody.

That's true.

Relax.

I'll try.

Just keep on loving them. And loving Harry. And especially loving yourself. It will be okay.

Will it?

Yeah, dumb ass. You swallowed a tack, remember? And cut somebody's hair to be funny, remember?

Hey. And Deanna dyed her hair in the water fountain with Kool-Aid. How dumb ass was THAT?

Super dumb ass. See? You dumb asses turned out fine.

We did didn't we?

So chill.

Okay. I'm chillaxing.

Sigh.

What?

You're soooo lame with your lame slang.

So lame, I know.

But I love you, girl.

I love you, more. 

Then act like it sometimes.

Sigh.

***

Us randomly dressed up in cub scout gear one day with our cousins.

*Background information for clarity

Dumb ass thing number 1:

In second grade, I was working on a bulletin board with my class. Instead of doing what I was supposed to be doing on the project that morning, I decided I'd make people laugh by putting a thumbtack in between my teeth. Why, you ask? Well CLEARLY a thumbtack held just so between the teeth bears an uncanny resemblance to a silver tooth. OBVI. Yeah. So I walked around with a dead pan face and just when they least expected it. . . TING! I'd unleash my grill and bring down the house. Or in this case, the table.

Turns out that laughing out loud with your head back whilst holding a thumbtack in your mouth is not the best idea.

Whoops.

"Hey! I can't wait to rush up to my child's school to take her to an emergency department in case she perforates her bowel from swallowing a sharp metal object!"

Yeah. Said no mom EVER.

That was a dumb ass thing to do. (Ask my mom how she confirmed that the thumbtack was out of my system and then let her tell you how AWESOME an experience that was. Or not.)

Easter Sunday in our clothes sewn by our mama.

Dumb ass thing number 2:

Sixth grade, packed bus. This girl who was named after a season--her name was like Autumn or Winter or Summer or something--had the world's STANKEST attitude and always sat on the second row near the driver. She also had the world's thickest straightest hair. On this day I thought HOW FUNNY would it be if I sat on the third row behind her and used my school scissors to PRETEND CUT like two or three strands? I said PRETEND CUT. Well. How was I to know that PRETEND CUTTING can sometimes accidentally become REAL CUTTING if you hit a bump on the highway?

"Hey! I can't wait to meet with the principal and some freckle-faced kid's mama who is demanding to let her child cut MY child's hair to teach her a lesson for the DUMB ASS thing she did on a school bus the day before!!!"

Yeah. Said no mom EVER and especially not mine.

I will spare you Deanna and the Kool Aid hair dying incident. Yes, I will. Just know that it was a dumb ass thing to do.


Okay. So my point? Um. I sort of forgot it. But yeah. Just be a friend to yourself. Talk to you as you would a good friend. And remind yourself of all of the DUMB ASS things you've done in your life so that you'll feel reassured that your children will turn out just fine. And if you need a smile just imagine this:

TING!

That's all I got.


***
Happy Tuesday.

P.S. JoLai didn't do a single dumb ass thing. But we made up for her lack of dumb ass choices.

Cause and effect.

Isaiah happily consumes his vegetables. Mmm hmmm.

Is it bad that I convinced my child to eat carrots by showing him my thick glasses? You know, the ones that he told me are "a little bit not that cool?"

"Dude. If you don't eat your carrots you'll need thick glasses. Like these."

"Yikesy."

Oh yeah and did you get the other memo? Salads and other green vegetables makes you run faster. Like waaaay faster. The darker the green the faster it makes you run. For reals.

Y'all didn't know that?

*insert eyeroll here*

Don't hate the playa. Hate the game.

***
Happy Wednesday.

Say my name.

When I first returned to Grady after my wedding and honeymoon back in 2004, quite a few people were surprised when I announced that I had a new last name.

"Dr. Manning," I said without flinching. Not hyphenated. Not optional. This was my new name.

And let me be clear: I think taking your husband's name is a highly personal choice. I do not knock those who don't one single bit. Especially because the vast majority of these individuals are grown women who should be able to do whatever the heck they want to do with their last names.

But me? I chose to become Kimberly Manning. Harry said he hoped we could all just be "Team Manning." 

Maaaaan, please. That brother had me at "team." 

Ha.

So I'll never forget it. I walked into Grady that Monday and one of the first people I saw was one of my favorite senior faculty members, Dr. Michael L. He scowled at me and said, "What's this I hear about you changing your name? You've been here for three years! My brain is too old for new names."

"You'll adjust."

"Draper. That's it for me. I'm calling you Draper when I see you and that's that!"  And if you know Michael L. you can hear his voice saying this full of super-surly cantankerous-ness.

"And I will not answer you since that is no longer my name. I still have Draper genes in me but I am now a part of 'Team Manning.'"

Michael took his index finger and feigned a (quite warranted) gag and wretch. "Draper!"

We faced off. I held up my new badge in his face and shook my head. "You'll adjust, sir. You will."

And you know what? Despite his attempts otherwise, eventually he did. He adjusted. As did everyone else around me.

For whatever reason, it was important to me for those around me to respect my decision to take a new name enough to use it. Just as it's equally important to respect those who choose to keep their maiden names and NOT assign them the name of "Mrs. So-and-So." I was firm on that. So that meant that I quickly corrected accidental hyphenations and even those who persistently got it wrong. Never did I give in and simply say, "No big deal, Draper is fine." And for that reason and that reason alone, I feel sure that everyone began to see me as Kimberly Manning.

You know? It wasn't as much work as you'd imagine. Outside of Michael L., it didn't require much redirecting. So I learned something. I learned that people will first do what is easiest for them. But if you let them know your preference. . . it doesn't take long at all for them to get it.

So that brings me to today. Today I was in clinic working with two wonderful residents. Both speak Arabic as their first language although one hails from Syria and the other Libya. Mahmoud, who always works with me in Monday clinic, taught me how to say his name properly after I watched people referring to him using a different pronunciation than the one he used himself.

"How does your mama say it?" I asked.

"It's okay, MAH-MOOD is okay."

"But how does your mama say it? Does your mama say MAH-MOOD? In Libya?"

And Mahmoud laughed loud and hearty which told me my answer. "I want to say it how you say it. And how your mama says it. Teach me."

So he took his time and taught me. "Say MAH."

"MAH."

"Then make a tiny little sigh like this--'hah'."

"hah."

"Then say MOOD."

"MOOD."

"Now. Put it all together fast like this-- MAH-hah-MOOD."

So I practiced in front of him. "MAH-hah-MOOD."

"The 'hah' needs to be smaller. And not guttural or else it becomes a different name."

"MAH-hah-MOOD."

"YES! Good, Dr. Manning! Good, good!" Mahmoud exclaimed.

And exclaimed was the verb I meant to use because that is really what happened. So every time I see him, I try my best to honor the name his mama and his daddy and his culture gave him enough to say it right.

Mahmoud.

I see you.

The Syrian woman working with us today is also of native Arabic tongue and has a rather intimidating (to Westerners) last name when you first see it-- Dr. Abed Alwahab. I don't work with her often so usually her first name suffices. But in clinic, I always address the doctor as a colleague in front of the patients so I needed to get the proper pronunciation of her name.

"Pronounce your last name?"

"A-BED is fine," she replied.

"What do you prefer? Do you prefer to be called 'Dr. Abed?'"

She shrugged. "It's fine. I'm okay with that. It's hard for people to say my name, so it's okay."

And Mahmoud shot me a glance because he knew what was about to happen next (and because I'm ridiculously predictable.)

"Tell me how YOU say it. Teach me how to say it."

So she smiled for a moment and then sweetly answered. "A-bed Al-wa-hab is the whole thing."

"Dr. Abed Alwahab?" I repeated. "That's totally phonetic."

She nodded her head and chuckled. "Uuuuhhh . .. I guess it is." She seemed more than anything to be glad of the time I took to ask and that was enough for her.

But Mahmoud knew that I wanted to really know how to say it. Like she says it. Like the way it's really pronounced. So he chimed in. "Dr. Manning if you want to say it like it's pronounced in Arabic, it's more like AB-DAL-WA-HAB. But you say it fast. All together."

"Dr. AB-DAL-WA-HAB," I proudly copied him.

And don't you know they both squealed with glee and clapping? So I showed off and repeated it like ten more times until I had it mastered. I saw her pale face flushing. I could tell how much she appreciated the gesture--this simple gesture of respecting her culture and her name.

Abed Alwahab.

I see you.

I have a colleague at Grady who is of Nigerian descent. Her name is rather intimidating on paper, too, but honestly? When you get past what it looks like, you recognize that it, too, is also pretty much phonetic. So most who see my friend, Ugochi (OOH-GO-CHEE) butcher that part (which is her first name) and then -- perhaps unknowingly -- refuse to even TRY her last name.

Ohuabunwa.

I guess they are just too exhausted from trying to say her phonetic first name? Uh, yeah . . .okay. Ohuabunwa. They see it and cringe. Or instead of cringing they just laugh and say, "Dr. O."

Ha ha hell.

But here's the thing--she doesn't refer to herself that way. I'm pretty sure that much like I wanted to be called "Manning", it would likely be her first choice to be called by her name, too. So just like those residents, I asked her to teach it to me.

And she did. "OH-HWAH-BOON-WAH."

Phonetic. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. Ohuabunwa. I practiced it until I got it right. And vowed to never call her or refer to her as "Dr. O" ever again.

Yeah, Dr. Ugochi Ohuabunwa. I see you, too.

Sure do.

As you can guess by now, this whole ethnic name dismissal thing -- and married name whatever-ness -- is a bit of a pet peeve of mine. I think it's kind of disrespectful to not even attempt someone's name just because it looks foreign or different to you.

Which reminds me. Our clinic staff used to annihilate one of our former Grady chief resident's last name each week in clinic. Oh Lawd, it was comical. His last name, ACHTCHI (AAHSHT-CHEE), is of Persian origin -- which, okay, does involve an awful lot of consonants. And maaaaan . . . the clinic staff called him all sorts of things. . . such as:

Dr. ATTACHE
Dr. ATARI
Dr. APACHE
Dr. CHACHI (as in "Joanie loves.. . ")
(and my personal favorite) Dr. A-CHOO-CHOO

But you have to give them credit for one thing--at least they tried. They saw all those consonants and still took a crack at it. An amusing crack but a crack no less. They didn't just look at it and decide to say "pass."

In my opinion we shouldn't be able to just "pass" on people's names. We owe it to their mamas and their daddies and their grandmamas and their granddaddies to try to learn and use the one they prefer. And not just our lazy English default. In fact I think saying someone's name the right way is kind of like the nod. . . .it's your way of saying, "I see you."

Because really. . .  how smug is that? How smug is it to look at a person's name and then size it up as not worth your brain power to properly say?  Especially if you work with the person repeatedly? I don't care if you don't have bad intentions, either. Indifference--especially to cultural things--can sting. Trust me on that.

Man, I'm just saying.

In case you're wondering. . . you don't need an "ethnic" name to have a preference. Here's mine:

My first name is Kimberly. You can call me "Kimberly" or "Kim" if you're a friend or an adult who isn't my student or my resident. In that case, "Dr. Manning" or "Dr. M" is cool. I don't like little kids calling me by my first name--unless it's got a "Miss" in front of it. Just call me old school *shrugs* That's my preference. And don't worry--if you're grown, my kids won't be rolling up on you with a fist bump calling you by your first name either. Even if you insist.

No, ma'am, they will not and no, sir, I don't think so.

Yeah. So if things are super informal and we're pals, "K.D." is fine--which a lot of friends from college and med school still call me exclusively--in casual settings. (My middle name still starts with a "D" so it worked even after marriage.)

And speaking of more preferences. . . . when my name is printed somewhere, I strongly prefer "Kimberly" and not "Kim." Yep. And yes. It makes me happy when folks acknowledge this wish--especially the Kim-in-print thing.

You know why? It's simple. My mama has always preferred "Kimberly." Always. Not one time has my mother ever referred to me as "Kim" or written my name that way anywhere. Ever. So out of respect for my mama, I introduce myself as such and like to see it printed that way, too.

Yep. That's my preference. Which tells me that everybody has one. Even a grandmama who wants to be called "Grandy" instead of "Grandma." Yup.

No, I won't taze you or scream at you if you slip up or you don't know my preference. I'm not so self-important that I run around obnoxiously shutting people down for improperly using my (hello? common!) name.

But.

My point is this:  Don't hear someone introduce themselves as something and then just create something that you find easier. Especially in a formal setting. Don't just reach into the sky and opt out of the name that their loved ones chose when they were born. Don't.

At least don't with me. 

With me? When you see me, say my name.  My name. Or one I'm cool with--and not just one I've given up and decided to be cool with just to save you a few syllables. Yeah. Say my name.

And I promise --- if you teach me how --- that I'll do my very best to always say yours.

Mahmoud.
Abed Alwahab.
Achtchi.
Ugochi Ohuabunwa.

See? It's not hard to learn it all . . . . that is, once you decide.

***
Happy Monsoon Monday Night.


What are your thoughts on this? Weigh in, y'all.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . . some old school Beyonce and her crew. . .